


All Our Years Are Golden

by starbolin



Series: Tumblr Fic [2]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alcohol, F/M, Friends With Benefits
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-01
Updated: 2013-11-01
Packaged: 2017-12-31 05:00:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,360
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1027511
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starbolin/pseuds/starbolin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Did they put you in your old bedroom?</i>
</p><p>“What are you doing, Stiles?” Lydia mutters. <i>Yes, why?</i></p><p>Fifteen minutes later, she’s helping Stiles over the windowsill, hissing, “I’m in my pajamas, you asshole.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	All Our Years Are Golden

**Author's Note:**

> Prompted by [Ava](http://starbolin.tumblr.com/post/65723190186/in-case-you-are-still-taking-prompts-stiles-lydia).

Collapsing back onto the guest bed with a sigh, Lydia brings up her wrist and taps her Cirrus. It fades from opaque platinum to interface. 10:09 PM. Fourteen new notifications, nine of them marked urgent. With a grimace, she brings up her contacts and forwards half of the messages to Emily. It’s late on the East Coast, sure, but the blessing of having a twenty-one-year-old teaching assistant is that “late” is the time they’re most guaranteed to be awake.

Just below E Stafford is S (H) Stilinski. Lydia taps to open a message and types, _Send vodka._

The reply comes back even before she lowers her wrist: _Ma’am, what is the nature of your emergency?_

Lydia smiles. _Family dinner. Mom wanted to talk about grandkids. Dad wanted to know why I haven’t argued for tenure._

_Sounds relaxing_

While Lydia’s typing a reply, a second message comes through. _Hold up, did they come out to you or are you in BH?_

 _I’m in Beacon Hills. Flying out from Sacramento tomorrow afternoon, and I plan to be drunk before we land._ After sending the message, Lydia turns over onto her side and curls around her wrist, lets her eyes close. 

The little chime rouses her from a not-quite-doze. _How serious were you about that vodka?_

_Like a heart attack,_ she sends back. 

_Did they put you in your old bedroom?_

“What are you doing, Stiles?” Lydia mutters. _Yes, why?_ When Stiles hasn’t replied for two minutes, she types _WHY?_ and selects text throb before sending.

Fifteen minutes later, she’s helping Stiles over the windowsill, hissing, “I’m in my pajamas, you asshole.”

“Fuck,” he groans, collapsing onto the floor, and holds up a bottle like a trophy. “I think I bruised my taint getting up here. Your pajamas are adorable. You’re perfect.”

Lydia takes the bottle and turns it around to read the label. “Platinka, really?”

Rolling onto his back to grin up at her, Stiles says, “From the motherland. And then from the liquor store on Sepulveda, but let’s not nitpick.”

Lydia peels up the edge of the foil with a fingernail and tears it off, dropping it on his chest, then goes to sit on the bed while she opens the bottle. Stiles gets up and pulls the desk chair out, drags it so close that their knees bump when he sits down.

“Cheers,” Lydia says, and tips the bottle back, opening up her throat.

“Whoa, okay,” Stiles yelps after a moment, pulling it away.

Wiping the back of her hand across her mouth, Lydia checks the level. “Relax, that was like a shot and a half.”

“Try two and a half, and this shit is 80-proof. I think we’ve both seen enough of the local hospital; let’s not end the night there.” Stiles downs a shot of his own and smacks his tongue against the roof of his mouth.

Taking the bottle back, Lydia screws the cap on and drops it on the bed. “So what are you in town for?”

Stiles sighs. “Remember how Dad busted his knee a little last month? Well, guess who decided he felt healed up enough for a foot chase. He’s been sleeping on the couch all week ‘cause he can’t get up the stairs, and Officer Ryan finally tattled on him, so I grabbed all the paperwork I’ve been procrastinating on and came up for the weekend to do the chores and make sure he eats actual food. Every time I touch something, he tells me to leave it alone because he’s gonna take care of it soon. I finally made him take a Percocet about an hour ago because I was gonna smother him with a pillow.” He slumps in the chair with a beleaguered exhale. “Could you please pass the booze?”

Wordlessly, Lydia obliges.

When he finishes swallowing, Stiles hands it back. “If they could tap the stubborn in that old bastard, they could power half the L.A. grid.”

“And here you ended up so easy-going.” Lydia smiles innocently when he narrows his eyes at her.

“So anyway, this is a fun coincidence. What’s it been, a year?”

“Something like that,” Lydia agrees, and takes another mouthful. Coming up, she corrects, “No, longer than that. You weren’t in town for Christmas.”

“Right, yeah, I had the multiple homicide thing. Well, it’s nice to see you.” His clear amber eyes crinkle at the corners, and Lydia smiles back. Stiles’s visible happiness has always been contagious. 

She looks at the pretty tilt of his lashes and scrunches up her lips thoughtfully as she passes the bottle. “Are you seeing anyone?”

His eyebrows spring up. “Um, not really. Why?”

Tossing her hair over her shoulder, Lydia leans back on her wrists, crossing her sock feet at the ankles. “On top of my own work, I’m assisting a colleague with a problem set, teaching two graduate classes, and running a study group. My youngest student is sixteen, and she’s on things I didn’t get to until I was twenty-five. I went to text Nathan last week and realized we hadn’t talked to each other in almost a month, and when I called to break up with him, he was surprised we were still dating. I have dreams about submitting my proposal, and then I wake up and it’s still only half written. This morning I cried a little bit while looking at my calendar. I want to get laid.”

At the last phrase, Stiles just barely catches the bottle before it lands in his crotch. “You, uh,” he falters, then rallies, sitting up ramrod straight. “I’m absolutely here for you in your time of need.”

“I’d prefer you to be over here for me in my time of need,” Lydia suggests, looking at her nails, and bites back a smile as he scrambles to obey. 

As soon as he gets a knee up on the edge of the mattress, he pauses, like he’s waiting to see whether she means it, so she rolls her eyes and grabs him by the front of the shirt, hauling him down for a kiss that he ruins by laughing into. Annoyed, she bites his lip sharply, and it’s like something clicks in him; his body goes from loose and shaking to focused and intent, and he opens her mouth up with his tongue, sliding it along the length of hers before taking her lower lip between his own teeth. When she lets out a low, surprised sound, he makes one back.

Lydia likes kissing fine, but it’s clear that her level of dedication pales beside Stiles’s. He kisses like everything about her mouth is fascinating, finding and tasting all of its soft crevices, teasing her with little flicks of tongue until she cranes up impatiently, then bearing her down as he puts everything he has into it. When he gets a thigh between her legs, she’s already worked up enough to exhale heavily and press up against it, feeling the slide of her pajama pants against her own wetness.

Stiles groans and rocks the long, taut muscle against her, switching all his weight to one hand to push the other up under her t-shirt. She arches as he flicks his thumbnail across her nipple, rewards him with a moan when he pinches it between two fingers. Reaching down between them, she gives the solid lump of his hard-on a squeeze.

“Oh, fuck, Lydia,” he breathes.

“Mm,” she says, feeling out the shape of him. Nice.

“Fuck,” he says again, and then, “Do you -- I could go down on you.”

“You could,” she agrees. “Or you could fuck me.”

Stiles swallows hard. “Or I could do that.”

He backs up off of the bed and starts stripping down. There’s absolutely no showmanship in it, but it’s sexy anyway, he’s sexy, rangy and easy in his body, and Lydia finds herself watching as she goes to the dresser, enjoying the flex and pull of his abs while he hauls his thermal shirt over his head, the spare efficiency with which he toes off his shoes, pulls his pants and underwear down as one, cock springing free. He dumps his clothes on the desk chair and climbs back onto the bed to watch her rummage through her purse. 

“I could swear I had -- ha.” Lydia turns and Frisbees the packet across the room. It smacks him in the middle of the chest, and, without even looking, he slaps a hand over it before it has a chance to slide down, eyes fixed on her as she shimmies her pajama pants down her legs and steps free. Standing in her t-shirt and socks, Lydia says sweetly, “Are you waiting for your dick to put that on by itself?”

Stiles blinks rapidly and rips the packet open, demanding, “Say dick again.”

“Schlong,” Lydia says. With a huff of amusement, Stiles hooks the condom out and flips it over a couple of times, checking the correct direction, before capping his dick with it. Lydia shrugs her t-shirt off and drops it on top of the pajama pants. “Tool,” she says, knee-walking up the mattress. He snickers outright, pinches the tip and circles the head of his dick with his other hand. Watching him smooth the condom down with efficient strokes, Lydia adds, “Shaft.”

“Can you dig it,” Stiles agrees, and looks up. “Okay, all systems go.”

Lydia swings a leg over his lap and plants a hand on his sternum, pushing him down until he’s leaning back on his elbows. Then, she reaches down to angle him and lowers herself until the snub head presses at the opening of her vagina. Holding his gaze, she says softly, “Cock,” and then, as his mouth falls open in a sharp inhale, sinks down. 

The strangled sound he makes is entirely satisfying.

“Be quiet,” Lydia says severely, pushing up and sinking down again. The stretch smarts a little, but the glide makes her throb, like one or both of their heartbeats have relocated to where they’re joined. “You’ll wake my parents up.”

“Oh, my _God._ ” Stiles wraps his arms around her and rolls them over. Before she can protest, he’s kissing her feverishly, breaking their mouths apart to murmur, “I can’t believe you just said that.” He’s slipped out a little, so she lifts her hips, and he slides right home again on the next push. “Seriously, this is the fulfilment of several of my high school fantasies,” he continues. “Or maybe just one. No, it’s definitely three at minimum--”

“If you’re trying to shut this little adventure down, keep making me think about teenaged boys,” Lydia interrupts.

Stiles grins. “Anyway, I was gonna say it’s just as well, since I wouldn’t have been able to blow your mind back then.”

Lydia narrows her eyes. “Overconfidence is not sexy.”

“Hey now, if I can back it up, it’s just confidence,” Stiles objects, and leans down to press their foreheads together as he rolls his hips, grinding his pubic bone against her clit.

“Oh, _shit,_ ” Lydia groans, hamstrings going taut and spine arching.

“Yeah,” Stiles breathes, vicious with delight, and switches all his weight to one hand, sliding the other under her ass to lift her to a better angle -- Christ, has he always been this strong? Lydia rakes her nails up the shifting muscles of his back, and he shudders. “Oh, God, yeah, please do that as much as you want.”

“Shut up, Stiles,” Lydia grits out, working herself against him.

He laughs a little, hysterically. “I actually don’t know if I can. Sorry, I’m just really, this is very-- _ah,_ ” he cries out as she claws him again, harder. “Plus I’m starting to get kind of drunk.”

“Then you’d better hurry up and make me come,” she says, and digs her fingernails as deeply as she can into his shoulder blades, swallowing his moan in a deep kiss.

Taking the warning to heart, he hitches her up a little more and gets down to business, adjusting each stroke just a little until he finds the one that makes her clench down the hardest, then nailing her with it over and over, face narrowed in concentration and chest heaving with syncopated breaths, like the goddamn Terminator. The way he’s getting at her clit, it’s more than clear that he means to bring her off without even a helping hand, and that he’s going to succeed. _Who the hell taught you how to fuck like this,_ she thinks, outraged, and then tips over and comes hard, releasing an ugly, guttural sound into the hand he slaps over her mouth.

He holds on about a minute and a half longer, then dissolves into a shuddering mass of limbs, lipping sloppily at the side of her throat and breathing in long, wet gasps as he winds down.

They breathe together for a few more moments, Stiles’s body becoming heavier and more relaxed with each exhale. When it gets uncomfortable, Lydia karate chops his ribs, growling with annoyance, and he reaches down to hold the condom on as he eases out of her and flops onto his side. “Fuuuuuuck.”

“Whoo,” Lydia agrees, and checks her Cirrus. 12:23 AM. She’s loopy with orgasm, warm with alcohol, and thirty years old.

Tucking her hair behind her ear, Stiles kisses her cheek. “Happy birthday.”

“You knew,” Lydia accuses, turning her head.

Sleepy-eyed, smiling crookedly, Stiles says, “’Course I did.”

She should get up and pee, brush her teeth, but instead, Lydia squirms herself half under the covers and turns her back to him. "Bathroom's through the door on your left."

"Okay," Stiles sighs good-naturedly.

"We're going out to breakfast at nine, so I'll wake you up in time to take second shower."

"Oh," Stiles says, in a different tone. "Okay." His weight shifts, then leaves the mattress. Eyes closed, Lydia listens to the quiet shush of his body crossing the room, the squeak of the bathroom faucet and the splash of water. She barely wakes up enough to murmur as he slides back in behind her, pressing a kiss to her bare shoulder and tucking his knees into the curve of hers.


End file.
